


Call It What You Want

by bumblebee_rose



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: F/M, Just a little ramble, Writers block is making me abandon stories I should be working on so have this for now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-11-05 07:45:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17914715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bumblebee_rose/pseuds/bumblebee_rose
Summary: “You don’t have to be jealous,” he says during the walk back to her apartment, her head leaned against his shoulder and her arm linked in his. The only light coming from the yellow gold street lamps and cars headlights on distant streets.“I’m not,” she lies, grumbling just slightly and bumping him with her chin. She’s not jealous, not if she thinks about it enough.“You are,” he says lightly “but you don’t have to be, you do know I’m not seeing anyone else,”





	Call It What You Want

“I tell the stars all about you” he breathes one night when the grass is cool against her bare back and the only bit of light is coming from a street lamp that seems so far away. She’s wearing a low back shirt and all night she’s found that his hand has never drifted far from the canyon crease running down the middle of her back, his fingers trilling down her spine and somehow finding the spaces between every individual bone. 

“Really?” She asks, turning her head to face him and it’s a bit cliche and weirdly odd when she thinks about it; thinks about how ice cream and her hand in his turned into them lying in a middle of a park with their shoes off. He promised a night where she wouldn’t have to see her breath turning to cloud in the air and he’s held his end of the bargain so far, it’s been pleasantly warm all night but that may have just been the warmth in her cheeks that only shows when he makes her laugh spreading to every part of her body. 

“Yes,” he admits, the back of his hand brushing hers lightly, he’s still looking up at the sky, his eyes flitting back and forth across the dark expanse “all the time, always, I tell them about us.” 

“What do they say back?” She asks, her voice airy and light. She feels drunk even though she hasn’t had anything but sweets all night; champagne drunk where the bubbles sit in your head and pop in the spaces between your thoughts. Intoxicated on laughter and and the summer air and the smell of cinnamon coming from the market square downtown. 

“Never much,” he says back “they’re terrible conversationalists,” he fake pouts and she laughs too much and too loud, maybe because it’s late and maybe because she loves him. She hasn’t quite sorted it out if she’s perfectly honest. 

“That’s a shame,” she gets out between giggles, her chest shaking with the force of her laughter as she bends her knees, letting her toes curl into the grass and settle in the soft dirt. She likes this, likes his rambling and his crisp shirts and the way his voice has started to go loopy and loose and free. It’s been a while since she’s felt this way. 

“It’s fine,” he says softly, ripping a blade of grass from the ground and rolling it between two of his fingers “they’re shameless flirts though, always winking,” he jokes, trailing off and she punches his shoulder lightly. 

“Sounds like someone else I know,” she grumbles and he smiles, tossing the blade of grass somewhere far away, and letting his hand fall to hers again like a star falling to earth. 

“It’s called being friendly,” he notes, his stardust thumb tracing circles in the crater of her palm and she rolls her eyes. 

“Friendly” She says, making quotation marks with her free hand “if I was that friendly we’d have more than a few problems.” 

“Suit yourself,” he says shrugging “but next time I’m not going to be the one to get your dress from the closed dry cleaners on short notice based on my pure charm and charisma alone.” 

“Moir charm,” she sighs “I’ve heard it’s just a myth,” 

She feels like she could lay in the grass forever, grow with the flowers and sink into the moss, she feels like she could do it if he stayed there with her, grew old by her side. 

“It worked on you,” he justifies and she supposes it did all those years ago, her bangs too long and her mittens too big. Skating circles with their hands barely touching and their rose tinted cheeks in the frigid air. 

“I can’t believe you broke up with me over the phone,” she says with exasperation, shaking her head lightly. They joke, a lot, about his friends and her mom standing beside her as she holds the receiver up to her ear, barely tall enough to see over the counter yet old enough to answer the phone herself. 

“Peer pressure, it’s a dangerous thing.” He sighs, sitting up and shaking bits of grass out of his hair. “I’m getting eaten alive, what purpose do mosquitoes serve?”

“They’re a food source, important for aquatic ecology, create nitrogen to help plant growth,” She lists off as she sits up herself, brushing a hand through her hair. 

“We could do without them,” he says 

“Yeah,” she agrees “people would be better off, less spread of disease,” 

“You know too many things,” he frowns, his eyebrows scrunching up. She wants to smooth out the lines with her pointer finger but she doesn’t, bunches her hands in the grass instead. 

“Maybe” she decides, slipping her shoes back on and grabbing his other hand so he can pull her up. She does know too many things, how he likes his coffee and what his breathing sounds like when he sleeps, what size shoes he wears and the exact order that he gets ready in the morning; clothes, then teeth, then hair, then breakfast. He wakes her up somewhere in the middle of all that with a promise of coffee and his lips pressed to her temple, the rough skin on his fingertips grazing her bare shoulder. They’ve left two “them” shaped indents in the grass, twin craters in the ground with arms that reach out for each other. “I’m hungry,” she announces out of the blue, swinging their joined hands between them. 

“The little diner on the corner?” He asks and she tilts her head to the side, puckering her lips in thought before shrugging and nodding. 

 

He holds her hand the whole way there, fingers slotting together like puzzle pieces and staying latched. She’s always thought that his hand has for a bit too well in hers, little space left for any air of reason or sense. He holds her hand in all their most important moments, she supposes it makes sense. 

 

He opens the door for her and she lets him, slipping through with his hand still clasped in hers even though it means he steps on the backs of her shoes. There’s a jukebox in the corner and a neon sign on the far wall, and it’s mostly empty and it might just be the most American part of Montreal, the faux leather seats sinking as she sits down across from him. 

He orders orange juice and she orders a chocolate milkshake with whipped cream because their taste buds have always been dramatically contrasting. She decided a while ago after finding only semi sweet chocolate chips in his cabinet that nobody sane was controlling his sense of taste. 

She knows his order though, knows that fries and mini sliders cost exactly twelve ninety nine, and that the orange juice costs two fifty, but she doesn’t know what she wants, stares at the menu and reads every line over and over until her eyes go crossed. 

Nothing sounds appetizing in the least and she decides to just order a side of fries until he pulls down her menu slightly with his pointer finger. 

“French toast?” He asks and she lets the menu fall to the table, the discarded bit of paper covering that she ripped off the straw getting pushed sideways from the bit of air that whooshes out from underneath. 

“Yes,” she nearly moans, her head tilting to the side and he shakes his own head a bit, failing to look anything other than endearing. 

“Excuse me,” he asks, laying both their menus in the center of the table “the service was lovely tonight, but can we please get the bill?” he smiles boyishly at the waiter, folding his hands neatly, and she nods once, flashing him a sly smile as she walks to the back, her hips swaying lightly.

“Flirt,” she mumbles resting her cheek on one hand. She thinks he might actually die if he doesn’t shake the hand of and smile at every single person he encounters. 

“She’s not the one I’m going home with though,” he notes and she rolls her eyes, scratching the surface of the table with her nail. 

“I know,” she says, meeting his eyes. If she makes sure that his hand is covered with hers when the waiter comes back she decides that it’s purely instinct. She’s been the main receiver of his love for more years than she can count of both her hands, it’s only natural to want to keep a part of him for her. 

 

“You don’t have to be jealous,” he says during the walk back to her apartment, her head leaned against his shoulder and her arm linked in his. The only light coming from the yellow gold street lamps and cars headlights on distant streets.

“I’m not,” she lies, grumbling just slightly and bumping him with her chin. She’s not jealous, not if she thinks about it enough. 

“You are,” he says lightly “but you don’t have to be, you do know I’m not seeing anyone else,” he admits and she stays quiet for a bit, letting the sound of their shoes against concrete and exploding stars millions of miles away fill the silence. 

She knows he isn’t, in the parts of her that know him she knows he isn’t because his commitment to her doesn’t waver, ever. He’s chosen her very time without fail, in less than a blink of an eye but teenage insecurities don’t heal as fast as she’d expected them too, her worries still taking up a minuscule part of her rational thinking. 

They’re not together, not really, even if he sleeps in her bed most nights and she wears more lace than she ever has in her entire life, delicate scraps piling up in her laundry bin. They’re not together and technicalities have always been especially relevant when it comes to them. 

“I’m not either,” she breathes finally and she can feel him smile just a bit against her temple. 

“I would think so,” he remarks “it would be a bit weird if you were sneaking off every night as soon and I fell asleep and returning just before I woke up, I’d actually be a bit impressed,” he says elbowing her in the side. 

She scrunches her nose, scuffs her toe lightly into the pavement before returning to their prior conversation “I’m not jealous,” she repeats, warm air blowing on her skin and making pieces of her hair settle on her cheek. 

“Okay,” he says, pausing to brush away her hair, his hand falling slowly down the side of her face. It would be easy to push him into an alcove and kiss him until their lips were both swollen and red and bitten cherry and it would be easy to straighten out his shirt collar and walk all the way home with her hand in his back pocket, much too easy. She could, it’s not like she hasn’t done it before but there’s a nagging voice in the back of her head and maybe it is jealousy and maybe it’s the bit of doubt she carries around with her nearly everywhere she goes. 

“French toast,” she reminds him, licking her lips and he nods, his eyes following the movement of her mouth. 

“French toast,” he agrees, his eyes flitting up to hers. 

 

The first thing she does when she gets back to her apartment is shower, her skin itchy and prickling from laying in the grass. He volunteers to go with her to make sure she doesn’t miss any spots but she sticks her tongue out at him and tells him to get working on dinner. 

“A bit late for dinner don’t you think?” He calls after her as she treks to the bathroom, toeing off her shoes in the middle of the room. 

“If you’re a non believer sure,” she calls back which only makes him confusedly yell “what?” back at her but she only calls him a non believer again in a sing-song voice and closes the door behind her. 

She can hear him faintly singing and banging around in her cabinets all through her shower, hears a large crash and an even louder “shit!” when what she guesses has to be the stacked aluminum bowls falls off the shelf. She laughs at that, the sound reverberating off the tiled walls and shuts off the shower to go check on the state of her floors. 

Clad in only a thin tank top and cotton shorts with her damp hair piled in a bun atop her head and her face bare she rests her chin on his shoulder from behind, rising up on her toes so she can wrap her arms around his neck without strangling him. 

“Why are you trying to break my floors” she whispers in his ear like it’s a secret and he laughs, flipping a piece of egg and cinnamon soaked bread over and pressing it down with the spatula until it sizzles. 

“I promise that was not my intention,” he swears, placing a hand over his heart solemnly and she nibbles on his ear lightly. 

“Better not have been,” she says, her voice low and raspy “I want my security deposit back” she finishes sensually, placing a kiss under his jaw. 

“Good” he says and she can feel his smile against the side of her face “single gold money doesn’t last forever,” 

“Looks like we’ll have to win a bit more,” she says nonchalantly, watching the way the muscles in his forearm flex and contract when the holds the pan and shakes it lightly, notes the dish towel thrown over his other shoulder and files it away for future times. 

“If you want more throw pillows then yes,” he says, turning off the overhead stove light and she frowns.

“Those were very essential purchases,” she mumbles, taking her head off his shoulder as he moves to grab a plate from the cabinet, wincing as she hears her new set of square edged dishes bumping against each other. 

“I never said they weren’t,” he replies, transferring the sweet smelling bread from the pan to a plate and shutting off the stove. 

“It was implied” she pouts, grabbing the syrup from the pantry. 

“Maybe” he agrees and he narrowly dodges her pinching him lightly in the side once he sets down the plate, moving back to grab a second plate from inside the oven. 

 

“How did you get so good at cooking?” She asks through a mouthful of bread, one foot resting on the seat of her chair and the other hanging just above the ground. 

“It’s French toast babe,” he notes back, cutting a piece of bread and causing the knife to scrape against her plate. He shoots her an apologetic look when she raises her eyebrows at him and lays the knife sideways on the table. His pet names are nothing new, but she think he might love her like she is. 

“Still,” she pushes “this is good, like Jamie Oliver good,” she says, pouring more syrup on her plate and he laughs a bit, uses the back of his hand to try and wipe some of the stickiness off her cheek. 

“Jamie Oliver?” He asks surprised, “Interesting choice in chef, I’ll take it,” he smiles raising his fork for her to clink her own against. 

 

Somehow loading the dishwasher with her phone blasting Hall and Oates and his unenthused sighs turns into him holding her and her socked toes balanced on his own, his hand creeping up the back hem of her tank top. 

 

“This is only supposed to happen in the movies,” she says softly. The way they’re dancing cheek to cheek to Nat King Cole’s L-O-V-E and the fact that the lights are half off and her socks are half off. She thinks that if lying in the grass was a cliche then they must both be utter saps because this is beyond anything she’s ever experienced. 

“I hate to break it to you Tee,” he says and she smiles a bit when the familiar nickname leaves his lips. She likes when he calls her by it, likes it even more that he’s the only one who ever does, “but this is real life” 

“I know,” she says, pressing herself a bit further against him “but no one's ever— I’ve never done this with,” She trails off and her mouth feels very dry in that moment, her legs turning to lead. 

“Oh,” he remarks, and it’s like the boundaries between them have never been more off. She feels like she’s seventeen and making out with a boy for the first time in his room but they’re just dancing in the middle of her kitchen, clothes fully on and about 5 other doors she could flee out of at any time. “we can stop if—”

“No,” she says, cutting him off, swallowing once, “I like this, I like you,” she says a bit quieter 

“I like you too” he says, his arms settling more securely around her and she breathes in the smell of him, grass and sweat and cinnamon and just a bit of vanilla. 

“Really?” She asks nervously, her words muffled against the fabric of his shirt.

“Of course,” he says easily and almost immediately, like he doesn’t even have to think about it. She supposes he doesn’t, he’s always been more sure of himself, his thoughts making their way into the open so much easier than hers ever have. 

“I like you so much,” she says softly , the words almost tumbling out of her, falling on the floor at her feet in sticky drops. “So so much,” she repeats, closing her eyes and he says nothing for a bit, just holds her and sways with her and rubs circles into her back. 

He doesn’t say anything as they’re brushing their teeth at her sink, doesn’t say anything when she crawls into bed beside him and turns off the lights, doesn’t say anything when she snuggles into his front, pulling her hair away from the back of her neck. 

“What is this?” is what he asks after a while, the moonlight feeling so heavy and thick on top of them and his warmth encasing her entire body. 

Her brain feels foggy and slow and maybe it’s why she answers so quickly “Whatever you want,” she mumbles “anything, it can be nothing if you need it to be,” she says quietly, her body going rigid at the thought of him telling her she’s been overthinking it all. 

“It’s everything,” he murmurs and she can’t help but let out the smallest of breaths, his other arm wrapping around her waist “all at once,” 

She turns around in his grasp, crawling in close enough so their noses touch and she just breathes with him. The stars and the moon and all the the planets lean in a bit closer but she tells him everything she needs to with her toes on his shins and and their fingers tangled together.

**Author's Note:**

> My other story is giving me serious writers block and as I was scrolling through a wedding dress Instagram i saw the caption “you told the stars about her...” and next thing I knew this happened. 
> 
> The title is from “call it what you want” by Taylor swift because as it turns out I’m a swiftie now 
> 
> Will take comments and/or bribes to help me finally get back to my other WIP
> 
> @buisnesspartners on tumblr 
> 
> ❤️ For reading


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